


a long night

by novoaa1



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 0_o, Anyways, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Its just smut, Like, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Daenerys, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, again really cant believe i wrote this, but its here so, i cant believe i wrote this, uhhhhhhhhhhh - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 20:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19048084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Daenerys is less than pleased with Sansa's decidedly cold treatment towards her since arriving in Winterfell.She confronts her about it.(I cannot stress enough upon the fact that there is essentially no plot here. Like, at all.)





	a long night

**Author's Note:**

> again, i really cant believe i wrote this
> 
> but here we are so uh
> 
> enjoy?

Daenerys does not deign to knock on the wooden door of Sansa Stark’s quarters; rather, the guards let her pass (if not a bit begrudgingly) and she enters unbidden—it is late, the sun having long since fled from the wintry skies, and as such, Daenerys is not confounded in the least at the sight of the Lady of Winterfell’s visible state of undress where she sits upon her bedding: only a sheer small-clothes gown covers her taut milky body, pert breasts topped with rosy pink nipples straining against the flimsy fabric, the hem bunched at the waist and scarcely covering the generous expanse of her long shapely legs. 

 

“Your Grace,” Sansa concedes, bowing her head for a brief spell—it’s a sign of well-earned respect, Daenerys acknowledges, but the movement is stiff, not quite genuine. 

 

What’s more, the lady Stark does not seem at all disturbed by her most sudden appearance—instead, those steely blue eyes regard her coldly, as if unimpressed by Daenerys, by her _Queen_.

 

It begets molten anger to rear its stubborn head deep in her bones, even as it wars with the utterly foolish piece of her that yearns for Sansa’s affections, for _her_ , the younger woman whose auburn locks are kissed by fire.

 

“Lady Stark,” Daenerys replies in kind. “I wished to confer with you.”

 

Sansa does not blink. “It is late, My Queen,” she says—not quite a refusal, but resistance nonetheless. 

 

The fury in Daenerys’ chest burns brighter. 

 

“You questioned my authority at the Wartime Council today before a hundred lords and ladies,” she states, ignoring the unspoken opposition. 

 

“My Queen, I assure you, it was not my intent,” Sansa entreats, not sparing a single beat, her syntax flat and monotonous. 

 

“You are not fond of my presence here, at Winterfell. Tell me, why is that?”

 

Sansa furrows her brow, flush pink lips parted—the very epitome of polite confusion. 

 

“I will confess I am unsure as to what you mean, Your Grace,” she intones coolly, oceans-blue eyes refusing to waver under Daenerys’ stare. "If I have appeared anything less than wholeheartedly welcoming since the morning of your arrival, you have my deepest apologies.”

 

Daenerys forces a smile to grace her features. “Forgive me if I am not so inclined to accept your words, though they appear lovely.”

 

Cold blue eyes flash indignantly for a short time, before it is replaced swiftly by earnest understanding. 

 

“What shall I do that you might accept my penitence, Your Grace?”

 

Inwardly, Daenerys rejoices— _Perfect_.

 

For a spell, she feigns a thoughtful expression, before calmly meeting Sansa’s inquisitive gaze. “I’d have you draped prettily across my knees to receive a fitting punishment by my hand.”

 

Sansa blinks, clearly taken aback—though, Daenerys acknowledges, the Lady of Winterfell does a most admirable job at concealing her disquiet, her slender young body still as marble, hands folded elegantly atop her thighs.

 

After some time, she speaks. “If it pleases Your Grace.”

 

“It would.”

 

Sansa swallows, unmoving. “Where would you have me, My Queen?”

 

“Here,” Daenerys commands, placing herself comfortably upon the single chair in Sansa’s quarters that sits just near the vanity, mere feet from the well-sized bed. “Across my lap.”

 

Wordlessly, Sansa obeys, taking slow but deliberate steps to approach before draping her lovely young body across Danaerys’ lap, her full pale bottom concealed only by the near-transparent fabric of her nightgown—in an instant, Daenerys rectifies this, pulling at the delicate fabric to reveal ample round cheeks and two precious dimples at the base of the woman’s spine, leaving the garment bunched unceremoniously above Sansa’s waist. 

 

“You have a lovely arse, Lady Stark,” she purrs, enjoying the girl's slight tense against her in response to her words. 

 

Sansa inhales sharply as Daenerys caresses one cheek, then the other with a kind touch. “T-Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

“So pretty, so pale,” she murmurs, more to herself than to anyone else, positively enraptured by the expanse of smooth unmarked skin beneath her fingertips. “Now,” she pointedly snaps herself out of her haze. “You will say thanks to your Queen after every strike.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

 

She sounds far too collected for Danaerys’ liking, much too poised—Daenerys aims to change that. 

 

_Smack!_

 

Her hand rains down _hard_ upon the girl’s ample left cheek, and she hears the girl inhale sharply in response (though to her credit she does not move); Daenerys delights in how the skin jiggles, how the alabaster hues turn a vibrant pink in the wake of her blow. 

 

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

_Smack!_ against the other delectably pale cheek, substantially harder this time. 

 

A quiet gasp falls from Sansa’s pretty pink lips, and Daenerys watches with interest as a rosy flush begins to spread down her neck, a perfect match unto the gorgeous pink marks gracing either cheek. 

 

“Thank you, Your Grace." 

 

_Smack!_

 

She jolts upon Daenerys’ lap at the contact, rapidly earning another firm _Smack!_ just below the arse for her troubles. 

 

“T-Thank you, Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa gasps out—the lady sounds rather out of breath, Daenerys notes with satisfaction, her words noticeably strained. 

 

_Smack!_

 

Another formidable hit to her now quite pink left cheek has the Stark girl swallowing a choked noise in her throat, though she does not flinch—for that, Daenerys allows her a moment’s rest. 

 

“Thank you, Your Grace."

 

_Smack!_

 

She lands this blow squarely upon the previous, eliciting another strangled noise from Sansa and causing the once-rosy skin to take on a darling hue of vivacious red. 

 

“T-Thank you, Your Gra—"

 

_Smack!_

 

“My apologies, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys intones, feigning nonchalance as she observes the quickly reddening skin of Sansa’s lovely arse. "I didn’t quite catch that.”

 

The girl clenches her jaw, and Daenerys delights in the show of defiance. “Thank you, Your G—"

 

_Smack!_

 

The noise is punctuated by a yelp of pain from Sansa (though the lady does her best to withhold it) and another jolt of the her hips— _Curious_ , Daenerys thinks as she watches the Lady Sansa squirm atop her lap, face flushed, cheeks even more so. 

 

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

A spell later, she smells it—heady, intoxicating; arousal, plain as the heavens above. _Sansa’s_ arousal.

 

_Smack!_

 

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

_Smack!_

 

Another muted shriek. 

 

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

The musky scent grows bolder in the air.

 

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys chides lowly, “if it is a punishment you take pleasure in, then it is most certainly no punishment at all.”

 

The blush on her pretty features deepens even further. “I-I apologize, Your Grace, but I know not the meaning behind your words.”

 

Daenerys’ lips curve. “Darling, you must know I can smell you, your scent.” Sansa shivers. "I surmise we both know quite well that if I were to stroke my fingers through your pretty little cunt, I’d find you exceptionally dewy. Shall we find out together?”

 

“N-No!” Sansa squeaks, stumbling inelegantly over her words. "I—N-No, Your Grace, I do not believe that to be necessary.”

 

Daenerys’ lips twitch. “Then, you confess that my punishing of you has caused you to be aroused?”

 

“I-I—I—“

 

_Smack!_

 

Sansa flinches in her lap, holding back what sounds to Daenerys to be a curious yet delightful cross between a pained gasp and a pleasured moan. 

 

“Use your words, darling.”

 

“Y-Yes, Your Grace,” she admits demurely. “T-Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

Warmth begins to gather in Daenerys’ nether regions. “Tell me, Lady Sansa,” she purrs. “Would you like me to touch your darling little cunt?”

 

Sansa is silent for a moment. “I-I do not know, Your Grace.”

 

Daenerys hums. “Very well,” she acquiesces, rubbing gently at the girl’s flaming cheeks. “Get atop the covers. I wish to watch while you pleasure yourself.”

 

For a spell, Sansa does not move. 

 

_Smack!_

 

“In case I was not clear, Lady Stark, that was an order,” she growls, a warning in her tone. 

 

Immediately, Sansa jolts into action, both pairs of cheeks aglow. “Y-Yes, Your Grace,” she mumbles, standing before Daenerys. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

Then, she turns to crawl upon the covers before leaning herself delicately against the polished wooden headboard facing Daenerys, pale legs chastely closed, as if Daenerys had not taken Sansa over her knees just moments earlier. 

 

Daenerys leans back in her seat, allowing herself to become comfortable. “Spread your legs.”

 

Trembling, Sansa does, neat red curls above glistening pink folds peeking out from under the hem of that cursed nightgown. 

 

“Take your garment up,” she orders. “To the waist.”

 

Cheeks flaming, Sansa does, squirming atop the covers—a moment later, all is revealed to Daenerys, and a wave of pleasure threatens to overcome her. 

 

“Pleasure yourself.”

 

A shy pale hand snakes down at Daenerys’ command, Sansa’s entire flushed body quivering as willowy fingers swipe daintily through the shining creases of her own cunt, a heavenly gasp escaping pink lips with every maneuver. 

 

“Already, you are close, Lady Stark?” 

 

The flush spreads down Sansa’s smooth chest and enticing collarbones. “Y-Yes, Your G-Grace.”

 

“Good,” Daenerys muses, her tone awash with unfettered mirth. “Faster, my Lady. I wish to see you climax.”

 

A strangled sound escapes Sansa in response, her pace obediently quickening, and Daenerys’ lips quirk further upwards—lewd wet noises fill the room to complement Sansa’s exquisite moans, the lady’s breath coming in short hurried gasps, her third finger working the tiny bundle of nerves atop her slit relentlessly. 

 

It’s rather like art, Daenerys thinks as she observes—the high-pitched whimpers and mewls, her slim figure pulled taut like a bow string, eyelids tightly shut as pleasure overwhelms her; at last, with the loudest cry of the night the Lady Stark peaks, flushed body trembling violently while she sustains her powerful climax, bare hips thrusting into nothing with keening whines upon every wave of self-indulgent bliss.

 

Daenerys waits patiently for Sansa to come down, shudders wracking her taut young body—a spell later, Sansa’s wide blue eyes shift to meet her own, an inquisitive look upon her pleasantly flushed features where she lies sated and spent upon the covers. 

 

Inwardly, Daenerys allows herself a chuckle—the girl expects that they are finished now, the brash assumption clear upon her blushing face. 

 

“Again,” she demands, leaving no room for argument. 

 

Sansa’s cerulean-blue eyes widen even further, something akin to fear in her stunned gaze—Daenerys simply tilts her head, waiting patiently. 

 

It will be a long night. 

 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked.. :)
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


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